Caught! Ch. 02

This is the second chapter of my story. Again, any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

(All characters are over the age of 18.)

Katie came back later that day.

Jamie had changed. The lace was gone, the air aired out, the weight of the morning stuffed down into some corner of his chest he didn't want to name. He wore a plain shirt and sweatpants -- soft, colourless -- as if normalcy could be faked by fabric alone.

The apartment felt too bright. Too exposed. Like it remembered everything he'd done, and the walls were just waiting for someone to say it out loud. He moved through the rooms like a man recovering from a fever, trying to erase every trace. He vacuumed the rug even though it was clean. Folded the throw blanket on the couch, then refolded it because the corners weren't even. Wiped the counters twice with the last clean dish towel.

It didn't help. His hands kept trembling. His mouth was dry. His heart hadn't slowed once since the moment the door had shut behind her that morning.

He kept glancing toward the front door like it might burst open at any second, as if she'd be standing there with fire in her voice, with rage and questions and demands for answers he wasn't sure he could give.

But when the door finally opened, it was worse than he imagined.

Jamie froze in place as the keys hit the ceramic bowl beside the door with their familiar soft clatter. A moment later, the deadbolt clicked back into place behind her, slow and steady. He turned from the kitchen, heart pounding so hard it made his vision shimmer.

Katie stood just inside the door.

She didn't speak. Didn't move. She didn't slam anything or throw anything or ask him what the fuck he was thinking. She didn't even take her shoes off. She just stood there, still in her work clothes, coat half unbuttoned, a folder tucked under one arm, and looked at him.

Her face was unreadable -- not flat, not furious, just... empty. Like she had nothing left to spend on this. On him. Her eyes skimmed his body, slow and impassive, as if checking for a trace of the person she thought she'd loved and coming up short.

Jamie opened his mouth, voice tight. "Katie, I--"

She raised a hand. Not to wave. Not to hold him. Just a single, tired motion to silence him.

His breath caught in his throat.

There was a long pause, not hostile but vast. Like a wall between them had finally finished building itself, brick by silent brick, and now it stood fully formed, impenetrable.

Then she spoke, her voice low and final.

"Pack your shit."

Jamie blinked. His hand tightened reflexively around the dish towel until his knuckles ached. "Katie--please, just--"

"No," she said. One word. Firm. Not cruel, not emotional. Just the truth.

That was all she gave him. No shouting. No lecture. No long, cruel breakdown. Just the edge of something sharp, clean, and already done bleeding.

She turned and walked toward the bedroom without looking back, the door closing softly behind her.

Jamie didn't cry. He didn't even move right away. He stood there, watching the empty space she'd left behind, the silence rushing back in like water. Then, quietly, his legs carried him toward the hallway closet. Toward the suitcase he'd always used when he stayed overnight at her place before they moved in. It felt too small for what this moment meant. His hands shook as he yanked it from the shelf and dropped it onto the floor, unzipping it with a sound that cut through the quiet like a rip.

He packed blindly -- whatever was closest: underwear, socks, button-downs, the charger he thought might be for his work laptop, though he wasn't sure. He didn't check. There wasn't space for thinking.

He moved into the kitchen, paused by the counter, and reached slowly into his pocket for the apartment key. It was a simple silver thing. Dull and stupid. He stared at it for a long moment before setting it down, gently, on the laminate like it might shatter. The sight of it there -- small and helpless and meaningless now -- almost undid him.

Katie never came back out.

For a moment, Jamie thought about knocking on the bedroom door. Saying something. Anything. But there was nothing left. Nothing that wouldn't turn to dust the second it hit the air. He stood still for a second too long, staring at the silence like it might change its mind. Then, finally, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

He didn't look back.

The drive blurred, the world outside the windshield turning into streaks of light and movement without shape. Streetlights came and went like flickers, each one flashing across his knuckles on the steering wheel -- gripped tight at ten and two, white with tension. He didn't remember turning on the radio. Didn't know if it had been playing. Maybe it had, maybe it hadn't. Maybe there was a song, something soft, something cruel.

The engine hummed beneath him like it was barely holding itself together. Like him. His jaw ached from clenching. His eyes stung, but he didn't cry. The traffic lights all felt red. Every turn felt wrong. His thoughts had narrowed to static and motion, a loop of everything and nothing playing in his skull on mute.

When he pulled up to his parents' house, the porch light was on.

He hadn't called. Hadn't texted. He didn't know what he would've said.

The driveway was empty. No movement inside the windows. Just that golden glow spilling across the steps, waiting for him like it had been on some kind of timer -- like even the house had known before he did.

He sat in the car for a moment with the engine ticking quietly beneath him, staring at the front door like it might disappear. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the still air. He pulled his bags from the back seat and slung them over one shoulder, though they felt heavier than they should have, like they carried not just clothes but the version of himself he'd failed to be.

He stood at the door too long, hand hovering near the knob, his breath fogging gently in the light. The bags hung from his shoulder like a confession. Like they was supposed to explain everything -- what happened, what he'd done, what he couldn't say.

The door opened before he could knock.

His mother stood there, soft robe pulled tight around her, eyes wide and tired and concerned, but not surprised. She looked at him the way a mother looks at a child who's come home wounded -- not asking what happened yet, just trying to see how bad it was.

She didn't ask.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, voice low and open. "Come in."

Jamie nodded once. Didn't trust his voice. He stepped across the threshold into the familiar warmth of the entryway, and for a moment, the air felt thick with memory.

Lavender and dust.

The floor creaked beneath his feet exactly where it always had. The way it used to under his sneakers, late after curfew. The way it did when he used to sneak down to the kitchen in the middle of the night for cereal.

His father looked up from the living room recliner -- glasses low on his nose, reading light casting a soft halo over his shoulder. He blinked once, slow and unsurprised.

"What's up?" he said.

Jamie gave a small smile, the edges brittle.

"Things didn't work out."

That was all he said. And it was enough.

They didn't press. His mother just gave a gentle nod, then turned toward the hallway.

"Your room's still yours," she said. "We haven't changed anything."

He walked down the hall with his bags slung low and his shoulders lower. Each step felt too loud, like the house hadn't been expecting him, like it was listening.

His old room was exactly how he left it. Same scuff on the doorframe. Same dent in the drywall near the bed -- a mistake from a desk chair he'd leaned too far back in. The comforter still the same navy blue with little frayed edges from when the dog used to chew it as a puppy. The blinds were crooked in the same place. The carpet hadn't forgotten his shape.

It looked like the room had been waiting for him.

He dropped his bags beside the bed and sat down slowly, letting the mattress take his weight with a soft, familiar groan. The springs sighed beneath him like they recognised him -- like they'd been holding their breath.

He didn't turn on the light. He just stared at the floor. And stayed that way until the light outside the window changed.

Over the next few weeks, Jamie didn't sleep much.

His body grew used to the strange quiet of his old room -- the gentle creak of pipes at night, the hum of the refrigerator down the hall, the muffled sound of his father's slippers on the hardwood in the early morning.

It should have been comforting. Familiar. But it all felt distant, like a life he'd stepped out of years ago and was now only pretending to re-inhabit. The duvet felt too heavy on his chest. The air too still, too clean. Even in the dark, the room seemed to watch him.

His phone lived on the nightstand, screen face-down, but he couldn't stop glancing at it. A dozen times a night, he'd reach for it without really knowing why. As if it might buzz. As if someone -- anyone -- might reach out. As if there was still another ending waiting, one where the story hadn't already collapsed in on itself.

There never was a message.

But one night, long past midnight, when the house was fully asleep and his heart wouldn't stop racing, he picked up the phone and opened Instagram anyway. Just to look. Just to numb himself with strangers' vacations and baby announcements and dinner plates.

At first it was just noise. Bright filtered selfies. Engagement rings. A gym mirror. Someone's dog wearing a birthday hat.

And then -- her name.

Katie.

Her photo appeared like a needle through skin. A podcast thumbnail, same one he remembered seeing a hundred times before but never clicking on. Bright colours. Casual wine glasses. A microphone between four women with big smiles and better lighting. Katie sat front and centre, radiant and sharp, with Sandra to her left, Maya to her right, and Rachel laughing behind them. The four of them had been doing the show for years -- a weekly episode, uploaded every Friday.

It started as a fun thing, a group chat with a mic, back when they were all in their mid-twenties. But it grew. They'd built a small audience -- mostly other women, mostly local -- and had started getting real sponsors: wine brands, skincare lines, dating apps. Jamie had heard them recording from the living room a few times. Always laughter. Always confidence. He never listened. Not once.

Until now.

The latest episode title stared back at him like a dare:

"I Found Out My Boyfriend Was Gay."

Jamie's thumb hovered over the play button. His breath had gone shallow. The air in the room felt tighter somehow, like it was closing in.

He told himself to put the phone down.

He didn't.

The theme music started -- obnoxiously upbeat, fake clinking glasses and bubbly synths, like the intro to a reality show about shopping for lingerie and setting boundaries. Then came Katie's voice, sliding through the headphones like a knife in velvet.

"So," she said, drawing the word out with a dramatic sigh, "this week has been... insane."

The other girls laughed, and someone murmured "Oh my God," off-mic.

Katie continued, smooth and casual, with that dangerous edge she could slip into without effort. "I wasn't going to say anything. I really wasn't. But you know what? Fuck it. It's too much. I have to tell someone."

Jamie's chest tightened.

"I came home early," Katie said, "and found my boyfriend -- who I've been with for ages -- in our living room, dressed in full-on slutty lingerie, watching gay porn and jerking off with a dildo."

The room on the podcast exploded.

"Shut up."

"Are you serious?"

"Wait, what?!"

Katie laughed -- sharp and unbothered. "Fishnets. Panties, Bra.. Stilettos. He looked like a rejected OnlyFans model."

More laughter. Loud and real.

Jamie turned his face away from the phone, but didn't pause it.

He should have. But he didn't.

"I was honestly too stunned to speak," Katie continued. "Like, I just stood there. And he looked back at me like I was the one interrupting something. It was surreal."

"Girl," Maya said, "you caught him playing dress-up with himself and he had the nerve to look annoyed?"

"I swear to God," Katie said. "And the worst part is... he actually looked kind of feminine."

That landed differently.

Even through the phone, Jamie could feel the shift in the room. The laughter paused.

"Like, convincingly?" Sandra asked, not laughing now -- just curious, maybe even sceptical.

Katie hesitated. "I don't know," she said finally. "His legs were shaved. He had this, like, tiny little waist. And the way he moved -- it was like... practiced. And his makeup wasn't a disaster."

A low whistle from Rachel. "Shit."

"It was fucked up," Katie said. "It wasn't just embarrassing. It was like walking into some secret life he never told me about. Like I wasn't real. Like I was the side character in some porn fantasy he'd been living without me."

"That's not just gay," Maya chimed in. "That's, like... some whole gender identity shit."

"Exactly," Katie said. "Like, at least if he'd just been cheating on me with a guy, I might be able to wrap my head around it. But this? I don't even know what to call this."

Sandra jumped in, voice firm. "You need to find a real man. None of this wishy-washy, soft-spoken, emotionally constipated, 'maybe I'm a woman on the inside' bullshit. Someone who actually wants to fuck you."

More laughter.

Maya laughed too. "Yes. Someone with a spine and a dick that works."

"Right?" Katie said. "I mean... I spent years thinking it was me. That I wasn't sexy enough. That he just had low libido. But now? Jesus Christ. I was dating a drag show with a porn addiction."

Laughter again. Louder. Meaner.

Jamie didn't move.

He lay there, still and cold, the phone heavy on his chest. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. Every word was a shard. Not just the betrayal, or the cruelty, or the mocking tone -- it was the way they talked about him like he was something other. A mistake. A punchline.

And yet...

There was that one line. Still echoing, still louder than the rest.

He actually looked kind of feminine.

It circled in his head like a whisper on loop.

He stared up at the ceiling, paralyzed. He could still hear them laughing, but it had turned to static. That one sentence carved through everything else. It cut, yes. But it also opened something.

Something worse.

Or maybe better.

He closed the podcast app with a slow, shaking hand. The silence afterward was suffocating -- thick and immediate, like the moment after a fire goes out and the room still smells of smoke. He lay there, body buzzing, every nerve raw and lit up.

He didn't want to feel what he was feeling. But it was there.

Shame tangled with want.

Hurt twisted into heat.

And somewhere inside it all -- a flicker.

A single, sickening bloom of desire.

The podcast didn't awaken something in Jamie. Not at first. It didn't embolden him or inspire him or help him reclaim anything. It did the opposite.

It hardened his resolve.

If Katie's voice had carved him open, her laughter -- and Sandra's, and Maya's, and Rachel's -- had poured salt in the wound. The fact that they could talk about him like that, that casually, that cruelly, made one thing painfully clear: he couldn't go back.

Not to her. Not to their life. Not to who he'd been when he still thought he could wear lace and heels and keep it a secret. Whatever version of him had existed in that apartment -- soft-spoken, careful, gentle -- was gone. And maybe he deserved that. Maybe he needed it. Maybe now was the time to kill it off completely.

He told himself it wasn't shame. Just necessity.

He assumed most of their mutual friends knew by now. Katie hadn't said his name on the podcast, but she didn't need to. Anyone who knew them -- even vaguely -- would've put the pieces together. They'd scroll through their feed, see her post, hear her voice, laugh along with the others, and they'd know. Jamie had been exposed. And not just exposed -- dissected. Rewritten as a punchline. Labelled and filed away under "too soft, too strange, too much."

So he did what he thought a normal man would do.

He got up in the morning. Ate what he was supposed to eat. Showered. Dressed. Smiled when his mother looked at him for a second too long. Spoke when spoken to. Said "I'm good, thanks" when asked how he was doing. He sat through video calls, responded to work emails, clicked through spreadsheets like they meant something. He made coffee and drank it while it was still hot. He worked late without complaining. He nodded a lot.

He didn't open the duffel bag.

He didn't look at the lace.

He didn't touch himself.

Then his manager called. Her voice was warm, surprisingly so, and threaded with something like sympathy -- though she didn't say why. There was restructuring happening. Some roles were being shifted. Some people were being let go. But not Jamie. They wanted to offer him a promotion: project lead, remote, flexible hours, better pay. "You've been consistent," she said. "Reliable. You don't make noise, and we like that."

Jamie blinked, the phone pressed to one ear, half a sandwich in his hand. He wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

He hadn't expected anything good to happen. Not with the wreckage still smouldering around him. Not with the weight of his own humiliation dragging behind him like an anchor. But there it was -- something unexpected. A chance to change. Or at least move.

He said yes. Not because he felt ready. But because it felt like someone had thrown a rope down into the pit, and all he had to do was hold on.

He found a small one-bedroom apartment across town -- second floor, plain building, white walls, newer than it looked from the outside. It was quiet. Unfurnished. Anonymous. A place without history.

His mother helped him pack. Folded clothes carefully into boxes, taped them shut like sealing a chapter. His father rented the moving van, loaded it in the driveway with the kind of quiet that didn't ask questions. They brought towels and a frozen lasagna, walked the place with parental scrutiny, tested the door locks and kitchen faucet, said it was "a good start."

Then they hugged him -- tightly, kindly. And left him standing in the middle of his new apartment, surrounded by boxes and silence.

The walls still smelled faintly of fresh paint. Every sound echoed a little more than it should have. The fridge hummed. The blinds rattled softly in the breeze. The light through the windows was soft and gold and hollow.

He just stood there for a while.

The couch arrived the next day. A cheap flat-pack thing he assembled himself with a manual in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. The bed frame he'd ordered came two days later -- it wobbled slightly, one leg uneven. He didn't fix it. The kitchen had one barstool. The closet was mostly empty.

But it was his.

No Katie. No hallway heels. No thin-lipped silence at the dinner table. No performance. No pressure.

He told himself he'd rebuild here. Start over. Be new.

The duffel bag stayed zipped at the back of the closet, under a folded blanket, behind a stack of boxes labelled "winter clothes."

He didn't open it.

He worked late. Took meetings in clean shirts and sweatpants. Ate dinner on the couch with the TV off. Said all the right things. Answered every message. Delivered every deadline.

It almost felt like stability.

But at night, when the screens dimmed and the fridge settled and the world fell quiet, something pressed in.

The silence grew louder. And the zipper on the bag started whispering again.

The podcast was still on his phone.

Jamie hadn't deleted it. He told himself he'd meant to -- that he just hadn't gotten around to it. It sat there like a loaded trap, one click away. He avoided it the way you avoid a mirror after a breakdown, like looking would make everything real again.

He didn't mean to open it. He really didn't.

But the quiet had teeth. And the dark, for all its peace, had started whispering too loudly again. One night, lying on the couch with his feet tucked under him, wrapped in an old throw blanket, half-asleep and fully restless, he tapped the screen without thinking. Not curiosity. Not need. Just... gravity. His thumb moved before he could stop it.

The screen blinked. The episode loaded. His headphones were already in.

Play.

The theme song washed over him like perfume from a stranger: bright, superficial, a little nauseating. All laughter and synthetic sparkle, the sound of girls clinking glasses and smirking into microphones. Then her voice -- Katie's -- slipping into his ear like smoke under a door.

"... He looked kind of feminine."

Just that.

That one sentence. Pulled from the middle of the episode, like fate had queued up the exact moment he shouldn't have heard again. Her voice wasn't cruel in that moment. It wasn't even mocking. If anything, it was curious. A little stunned.

The line hit like a match dropped into dry grass.

Jamie froze.

Everything in him went still, except for his pulse, which began thudding behind his ribs like it was trying to escape. That strange, dangerous warmth flushed low in his stomach again, shame curling tight in his throat -- but behind it, deeper, was something else.

Not just exposure.

Recognition.

She'd seen something. Not the humiliation. Not the performance. Something truer. Something closer to the centre of who he was when no one was looking. And worse -- or maybe better -- it hadn't sounded like disgust. It had sounded like observation.

Jamie couldn't stop replaying the moment in his mind: the way her voice dipped slightly. The pause that followed. The silence on the recording, like maybe -- just maybe -- the others had seen it too, even for a second. A flicker of acknowledgment.

Feminine.

The word curled under his skin and stayed there. Not an insult. Not a slur. Just a possibility. One that burned.

He paused the podcast and set the phone down on the couch beside him, like it might go off again without warning. The apartment was dark, lit only by the ambient spill of city lights through the blinds, casting long golden bars across the floor. He sat there for a long time, unmoving, his breath shallow and his jaw tight.

But eventually -- slowly, quietly -- he stood.

Barefoot, he crossed the living room. No music. No thought. Just motion. The floor creaked under his weight. The bedroom waited, cool and still. The closet loomed.

He opened the door.

He didn't hesitate.

He reached behind the hanging coats and pulled out the duffel bag, the zipper smooth under his fingers. It opened like it had been waiting. Like it knew.

Inside: the soft, familiar weight of secrets he hadn't touched in weeks. Everything folded, gently compressed. Not pristine, but cherished.

He carried it to the bed and unzipped it fully, laying each piece out with care -- the pale pink bra, matching panties, garter belt, fishnet stockings, the four-inch nude stilettos. Each item placed with quiet reverence, like laying out offerings. His fingers lingered on the fabric, tracing the curves of lace, the slight fray at the bra's edge, the way the fishnets curled slightly at the knee where they always stretched.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, staring.

The clothes didn't look like shame.

They looked like memory.

They looked like her.

He stripped slowly -- not rushed, not embarrassed -- folding his clothes with a kind of tenderness he hadn't shown himself in weeks. His bare skin prickled in the air. His reflection waited, half-glimpsed in the dark mirror across the room. His body still felt wrong in places, too flat, too broad, too empty -- but quieter than it used to. Less combative. Like it wasn't fighting him, just... waiting.

The panties first. Soft pink lace. The elastic resisted slightly, then yielded as he stepped into them. The fabric slid up over shaved skin -- thighs, hips -- and hugged him just right. Not tight. Not hiding. Just holding. Framing.

The bra next. Pale pink to match. He slipped his arms through the straps, the band hugging his ribs with just enough pressure to feel like a presence. A shape. His fingers found the clasp behind him without thought. Click.

It wasn't comfort he felt. It was definition.

The fishnets came next -- rolled slowly up each leg, the mesh whispering against skin. They caught slightly on the back of his knees before stretching tight over his thighs, the patterned weave tracing his contours like they'd been made just for him. They didn't hide him. They drew him.

He clipped the garter belt into place, adjusting each strap until it lay flush against his thighs, firm but delicate. His hands didn't tremble this time. They moved like they remembered.

Finally, the heels.

He sat at the edge of the bed and slipped them on, one foot at a time. When he stood, his hips tilted forward slightly, the curve of his spine adjusting instinctively. He felt his posture shift -- subtle, fluid. Like something in him had always been waiting for this alignment.

He walked slowly across the room. The soft click of the stilettos on hardwood echoed through the apartment like punctuation. He didn't sway. He didn't stumble. His hips moved naturally. His shoulders softened. His chin dipped, just slightly.

His body was no longer pretending.

It was remembering.

He turned toward the mirror.

She was there.

Not perfect. Not polished. But real. Close. Long legs hugged in black mesh. A slim waist, subtly curved by the belt. The soft bulge tucked against pink lace. Collar bones and bare shoulders. A mouth parted slightly in surprise. Her surprise.

Jamie stepped closer.

He wanted more.

He walked over to the bed, legs trembling just slightly from the heels, and sat down with careful grace. The laptop waited on the nightstand, quiet and ordinary. He opened it like opening a door. The screen flared to life in the dim light, casting soft blue across the pink lace stretched over his chest. His fingers moved before he could stop them, like they already knew the way.

He didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

He typed in the names of old sites like passwords to locked doors. Places he hadn't visited in months, some even longer. The pages loaded like secrets he'd buried, each one bursting with colour, movement, possibility. Dresses. Skirts. Stockings. Corsets. Wigs. Makeup kits. Everything shimmered, dripped with potential. Lace and mesh and satin and velvet. Cutouts and plunges and straps meant for wrists, not shoulders.

His screen filled with soft edges and hard lines, things meant to tease and transform -- a wardrobe for the version of him that had always lived in whispers.

His fingers trembled as he scrolled, the cursor dancing wildly from one corner of desire to the next. And then -- without thought, without breath -- he added the first item to the cart.

A bra and panty set. Black and wine-red. Lace so sheer it was almost smoke. The panties had a tiny satin bow at the waistband -- delicate, obscene. The bra was a quarter-cup -- more tease than support, designed to lift just enough to show what wasn't covered. It looked like something worn not for comfort, but for seduction.

He added it without blinking.

Then came the heels.

Five inches. Patent leather. Ankle straps. A pointed toe like a weapon. They weren't like the ones he already had -- they weren't sweet, or soft. These were shoes made for being noticed. For clicking down hotel hallways. For kneeling. For being told what to do. He added them before he had time to think.

Next: a short, pleated plaid skirt. Schoolgirl cut. The kind that didn't bother pretending it was about innocence. Barely long enough to count as clothing. It paired perfectly with the sheer mesh crop top he found in the next tab -- long sleeves, high neckline, and a keyhole cutout right over where his chest would be. A place for imagined cleavage. A silent dare. The thigh-high stockings were an obvious choice -- white with soft lace trim, designed to roll halfway up the thigh and wait there for someone to push them down again.

His cock twitched behind the satin, heat pooling low in his stomach.

He bit his lip and kept going.

A black choker with a silver heart charm -- a shape that said take me more than love me. A pair of delicate ribbon wrist cuffs, dainty and soft. Not meant to restrain. Just to suggest the possibility. A pink satin harness with little gold rings and crisscrossed straps, a lingerie skeleton for the body he wished he had. Decorative, useless, beautiful.

And then, in the next tab, a dress.

A faux-leather minidress, so tight it looked poured on. Halter neckline. Bare back. Hemline high enough to ride up if he so much as leaned forward. It looked cheap and perfect. Club lighting, sticky skin, lip gloss smeared by a kiss. The kind of thing you wore for attention, or punishment, or both.

He stared at it longer than the others. Then added it to the cart.

He sat back, panting, thighs pressed together, the fishnets taut across his skin. His heart was pounding. His cock strained beneath the panties, wet at the tip. But this wasn't just arousal anymore. This was ache. Longing. The clothes weren't just sexy. They were hers. They were for her.

But she wasn't whole yet.

Not without --

He opened a new tab.

His breath caught as he typed:

realistic synthetic wigs crossdresser

The search results bloomed into colour. Blonde curls. Sharp black bobs. Pastel waves. Layered ombré. There were options for every face, every shape, every version of the girl he hadn't let himself become. Some were too shiny. Too plastic. Too cartoonish. But he kept scrolling, scrolling, until --

There.

A long, straight chestnut brown wig. Natural part, tucked slightly to one side. Subtle layers at the ends. It looked soft, not synthetic. Just past the shoulders. Clean and real. It looked like her hair -- not the fantasy girl, not the slut on cam -- but the girl he might have been if he'd just let it happen. The version of himself who could walk down the street with her head up and her smile subtle, with people turning to look and never questioning why.

He stared at the photo for a long time. Let it settle.

It didn't feel like a costume. It felt like permission.

He added it to the cart.

The checkout screen came up. A blinking cursor. A box for the shipping address. Another for payment. He stared at the screen, breath shaky, hand hovering over the trackpad.

He could still back out. Shut the laptop. Pretend this didn't mean what it meant.

But he didn't want to.

Not anymore.

He clicked.

Checkout complete.

The screen changed.

Thank you for your order.

Jamie stared at those words like they were a spell.

He sat there in heels and fishnets, heart pounding, lips parted, cock pulsing softly beneath the lace. He felt lightheaded -- not dizzy, but floating. Like he'd just crossed a border no one had told him he was allowed to approach.

He wasn't just dressing up anymore.

He was becoming.

And there was no going back.

He was supposed to feel satisfied. Or at least calm. He'd done it -- clicked the button, made it real, crossed a line he'd spent years circling. The shopping cart was empty now. The confirmation email was in his inbox. The clothes were on their way.

But instead of relief, something deeper began to burn.

Not panic. Not regret. Something slower. Hotter. A kind of ache that didn't settle -- it climbed.

It wasn't just the clothes. It was the thought of being seen.

Her.

The girl in the lace. The one in the heels. The one who only existed behind closed doors. The one who had always been a secret, a shadow. A whisper inside him that asked, What if you didn't have to hide? What if someone wanted you like this?

His breath hitched.

He turned back to the laptop and opened a new browser tab, the keys clicking too loudly in the quiet apartment.

The results were exactly what he expected -- messy, overstimulating, half-legal-looking. Neon fonts. Scrolling ads for pills and cams. Pop-ups that flashed like fever dreams. But buried beneath the noise was something raw. Real. The kind of space where shame lived out loud and names didn't matter.

He clicked.

The site loaded slowly, like it knew what it was about to reveal. The landing page was chaotic -- pink and black and covered in usernames like "Daddy4Sluts" and "SilkyDollXoxo." Profile pictures blurred the line between fantasy and confession -- fishnet legs, glossy lips, girls with faces hidden behind wigs and filters, and men with wide hands and hard stares. He felt himself harden just looking at them.

It was perfect.

He clicked Sign Up.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for only a second.

Username: CuriousNewbie26

No bio. No location.

Then came the photos.

His heart was thudding again -- low and slow and deep, like the rumble before a storm.

He turned toward the mirror, breath catching. His phone was already in his hand, screen glowing softly. He didn't think. He just angled the lens and posed.

The first shot was simple -- full-body, from a flattering angle. Standing tall in the heels, hips tilted just slightly, one hand draped over his stomach, the other holding the phone. Bra. Panties. Fishnets. His posture was soft but deliberate. Submissive without apology. His face was cropped out, carefully -- deliberately -- the photo cut just below the chin. It made her feel safer. Anonymous. Controlled.

Click.

Then something in him shifted.

He sat at the edge of the bed, legs crossed at the knee, thighs pressed close. The panties were stretched tight across his cock, visibly damp with arousal. The lamplight caught the sheen of lace. His lips parted. Still no face. Just body. Just curves and tension and suggestion.

Click.

He turned, arched his back, leaned forward so the garter straps pulled tight across his ass. The stockings cinched high on his thighs, the lace riding up just slightly. He bit his lip in the mirror, though only he could see it. The camera stayed angled low, face still out of frame. Just the parts he wanted them to see.

Click.

Then he dropped to all fours on the bed, hand tangled in his hair, mouth open, panting. His spine curved down into a gentle slope, the lace stretching across the cleft of his ass. The heels elevated him. His body looked like an offering. Still faceless. Still anonymous. It made it hotter, somehow -- being wanted, without being known.

Click.

He stared at the photos afterward, flushed and breathing fast. His cock pulsed behind the panties, aching with every second that passed. The lighting was soft. The shadows curved around him like they were designed for seduction. His body -- hers -- didn't just look good. It looked impossible. Dreamlike.

Upload complete.

Your profile is now live.

The page refreshed.

And just like that -- she existed.

He clicked Explore.

A scroll of other crossdressers filled the screen. Some were fully dolled up -- glossy wigs, expertly contoured makeup, lips painted deep red, nails sharp and perfect. Others were raw, messy, amateur -- grainy selfies in bathroom mirrors, bodies posed with aching desperation. Bent over, legs spread, faces cropped or blurred or hidden behind wigs. It was a parade of want -- and Jamie drank it in like hunger.

He felt a twist in his gut.

God, they were beautiful. Some of them looked perfect -- and he hated how much he wanted to be them. Hated how much he envied the shape of their hips, the confidence in their arch, the unapologetic curve of their spines. He wanted to know what it felt like to belong in a body like that -- to be desired for it. Used for it.

He kept scrolling.

Then the men appeared.

And Jamie stopped breathing.

They weren't boys. These were men. Older. Broader. Confident in the way that didn't beg -- it commanded. Square jaws, forearms like stone, smirks that didn't try to impress. They didn't ask for permission. They posed shirtless, in suits, in hotel mirrors. Their captions were short: Looking for my girl. Obedient preferred. Be soft, I'll be firm.

One photo showed a thick hand gripping the hips of a crossdresser bent over a leather ottoman, face buried in pillows, lace pushed aside.

Jamie's cock twitched hard behind the panties.

He wanted that.

Not just the sex -- the claiming. The certainty. The way those men looked at softness like it was meant to be taken. Like they already knew what to do with it.

His hand trembled on the trackpad.

His screen flashed.

You have a new message.

Jamie froze.

A chill traced down his spine, delicious and sharp. His breath caught, pulse hammering behind his ribs, cock aching so hard it hurt.

His finger hovered. His heart pounded in his throat -- not fear, exactly, but something close. A kind of electric panic. The kind he only felt when he let her breathe.

He clicked.

From: MrBanks

Message: Have you ever thought about letting someone see you? Really see you -- the way you want to be seen. I could show you how good that feels.

Jamie inhaled sharply.

His legs clenched. His lips parted.

He read the message once. Then again. Then again, slower.

Letting someone see you.

Really see you.

The way you want to be seen.

It wasn't lewd. It wasn't crude. But it made his whole body throb. There was something terrifying about how gentle it was -- how certain. Like the man behind those words already knew what Jamie was becoming.

His cock pulsed behind the lace, wet and aching.

He clicked on the sender's profile.

MrBanks.

The photo was clear enough: a man in his forties, broad chest beneath a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Salt-and-pepper beard. Strong jaw. Calm eyes. There was no smile. Just presence. The kind of face that didn't need to try. The kind that asked nothing -- just expected.

Jamie scrolled.

Another shot -- shirtless this time, thick hands wrapped around a coffee mug, veins visible up both forearms. No pose. Just ownership.

Jamie whimpered softly.

He dropped the laptop onto the bed beside him, heart pounding like a drum in his ears.

Then reached blindly for the lube and the dildo.

He didn't even strip -- just hiked the panties to the side, got on his knees, and slicked his fingers fast, breath stuttering as he reached back and pressed against himself.

The first finger slid in easily -- he was already open, already needy. The second followed with a gasp, his hips bucking forward as he imagined those hands gripping his waist, that voice low in his ear.

I could show you how good that feels.

He moaned, high and breathy. His thighs trembled.

He reached for the dildo. Lubed it, shakily, the tip slick and smooth in his fingers. He brought it to his entrance, exhaling as he eased it in, inch by inch, his back arching, lips parting in a soft, helpless sound.

He was full now. Filled.

And still -- needing more.

He thrust it slowly, rocking his hips into each movement. The lace of the panties rubbed against his cock, soaked through. He stared at the laptop screen, still open, MrBanks' image glowing.

Really see you.

The image in his mind flooded: him on all fours, wig flowing, mouth painted red, heels in the air. A man above him -- firm, slow, calling him girl. Petting him. Owning him. Telling him he was beautiful. Telling him he was right.

The pleasure built fast -- too fast.

He wasn't ready, but his body was.

One more thrust and he came hard, moaning softly as heat bloomed through him. The orgasm crashed over him like waves -- thighs shaking, chest fluttering. His cock pulsed against the lace, a wet, spreading mess.

He collapsed forward, panting, trembling.

The dildo slipped free with a shudder.

He rolled onto his side, breath catching in the back of his throat. For a moment, everything was still. Quiet. Safe.

Then -- slowly -- he reached for the laptop again.

The message still sat open.

Waiting.

Jamie stared at it, chest rising and falling beneath the bra. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

He could log out.

Delete the account.

Pretend none of this ever happened.

But he didn't.

He typed one word.

"Yes."

And hit send.